


The Right Partner

by crowleyshouseplant



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 10:30:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1645445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowleyshouseplant/pseuds/crowleyshouseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He realizes that he’s somehow fallen asleep on Bucky’s shoulder, red star scratched to hell and back, and that in turn, Bucky’s sleeping on his shoulder too, so that their heads are pillowed up close to each other, strands of Bucky’s still long hair tickling his cheek and neck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Right Partner

**Author's Note:**

> For Lena, who wanted Sam and Bucky hugs

Sam wasn’t lying about the beds being too soft. Sometimes, he still finds himself waking up on the floor. Other times, when he’s restless and the bed is too soft and it’s easy to lose himself in memories that are on loop, easy to see Riley’s face in the shadows behind his eyes, easy to hear the click of wings setting into place and bellies free-falling as they soar in darkness, the disruption of silence as he hears something loud, boom of the guns, rat-a-tat bullets beating a snare drum rhythm against metal and bone and maybe it’s just wind rifling through the gutters and finding littered aluminum cans or maybe it’s just the helecarriers rising again but either way, Sam’s eyes fall open, and he looks in the gloom that presses in on his room, held at bay by a simple night light he picked up at walgreens, and he thinks that there’s probably not gonna be anymore sleep tonight, and there’s still an hour to go before it’s time for his early morning jog.

So he gets up slow because he’s a little older now and sore because he’s only human, and he keeps his hands spread against his knees, bracing himself, breathing slow and deep to help clear the foggy memories and to help him focus on his too soft bed and the scratchy afghan his grandma crocheted for him before he went off to college.

He pulls on grey socks, cotton worn thin, and walks, sleepy, from his room. 

Steve’s sleeping still, and Bucky’s already up, tv on low. Looks like one of those cooking shows—something quiet, something domestic, something without dramatic shots and zooms and explosions. Sam takes down two glasses, fills them both with orange juice, before sitting himself down next to Bucky, handing him the second glass, already beginning to sweat from the heat because it’s summer in new york and even though the sun wasn’t up yet, the weather hadn’t got the memo that it wasn’t supposed to be so warm this time of morning.

Bucky takes it after a pause, without a word, and sips it slowly. 

Sam feels himself getting sleepy again, and he thinks that maybe he should get up, start stretching in preparation for his run, but he also doesn’t want to, because he is tired and the drone of the tv is nice as the cook talks over the scrape of spatula against teflon, the quiet crack before eggs splat softly into the pan, the cold pour of milk, which is when Bucky switches the channel to PBS. 

Sam leans his head back against the couch, thinks he’ll just close his eyes for a second, then he’ll go and make coffee, and set it so that it’ll start brewing in time for him to come home to a nice, fresh pot but instead he wakes up much, much later he figures, as he blinks the morning sun bleeding through his cheap blinds from his eyes. He almost starts, body already poised for something, to run up, to jump, to act—when he realizes that he’s somehow fallen asleep on Bucky’s shoulder, red star scratched to hell and back, and that in turn, Bucky’s sleeping on his shoulder too, so that their heads are pillowed up close to each other, strands of Bucky’s still long hair tickling his cheek and neck.

Sam glances down, at their legs touch, at the way their hands are brushed up against each other knuckle to knuckle—

—the solid, warm, hard presence of them both together.

Sam’s throat wells a little, gets dry and thick, and he thinks about Riley and how Riley never did come back and how his grave was empty and his eyes are still burning when Steve walks into the living room, carrying two cups of steaming coffee.

"Morning, sunshines," he says, and Bucky stirs and the moment’s gone and he takes the cup from Steve, cradling it in his palms even though it’s hot, and Sam takes his too, drinking it down so he feels the burn in his chest.

"Missed you today, Sam," Steve said, sitting next to Sam in the empty space that Sam must have made when he was sleeping earlier. 

Sam laughs. “Well, I just didn’t want you to strain your voice saying on your left all the time.”

And Steve smiles soft, like that would never ever happen ever.

What happened with him and Bucky on the couch doesn’t happen again (at least, not for a while), but one day, when they’re taking one of the precious few days where they do get a break from saving the world, Sam puts on one of his mama’s old records, rhythm and blues, and he listens to it with his eyes closed, hips and hands moving to the beat of it, letting it wash over him like it was the only thing that mattered, when he heard Bucky coming in, and then he saw him there, leaning against the hall, with his arms folded across his chest. “You dance,” he said.

"I do," Sam said. "Not as well as some people, but I do." To be honest, being up there in the air was where he shone, and he knew he flew like one of god’s avenging angels, but it wasn’t possible to keep those wings strapped to his back all day every day, so dancing like David, a man of God’s own heart, was a close second. "You dance, Bucky?"

Bucky pauses before answering. “I did.”

"Then what are you standing over there for, when you could be joining me?"

Another wait, longer this time. “I don’t remember how.”

Sam squeezes his eyes shut, lets his body flow with the rhythm of the music. He’d not been tortured and brainwashed like Bucky had, but he remembered what it was like, stepping off that plane after he got back from his last tour, stepping back into this house after he left. Not knowing what to do with himself when he got back. How to sleep on a bed. Having time and space to brush his teeth twice a day. How to relax in the couch. Take a nap. 

Hell, sometimes it felt like he was still relearning how to do all those things. 

"I can teach you," he says. 

Bucky stands very still. His hair was still long, and there was still a little scruff on his cheeks. “Then what are we waiting for.” He pushes himself from the wall, stands a little awkwardly in front of Sam. 

Sam reaches out for his hands, and holds them booth loosely in his. “First, we have to find your rhythm,” he says. 

Bucky moves with Sam awkwardly, and Sam knows it’s because he’s not letting the rhythm move him but because he’s trying to copy Sam, and that’s okay, we all have to start somewhere. Sam hums along a little, and Bucky focuses intently on the way their feet move, the way their hips sway, the way their hands are held together. 

Soon, they’re standing closer to each other, close enough that their clothes brush against each other, and close enough that they can feel each other’s soft puffs of breath. The music grows a little softer, and Bucky leans in close to Sam. His grip slips from Sam’s and his hands fall to his waist, to his back, and Sam mirrors his own hands along Bucky’s body so that they’re holding each other so close as they dance to the music.

And even when the music ends, the record finished, they still sway to the beating of their hearts, the soft fall of their breaths. 


End file.
